


as if it were the first

by crownsandbirds



Category: If We Were Villains - M.L. Rio
Genre: Implied/Referenced Murder, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Past Suicide Attempts, Post-Canon, Reunion, and oliver is back, basically james is living with colin and alex after his failed suicide attempt, i'll tag other characters as they show up but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-22 08:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13760616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crownsandbirds/pseuds/crownsandbirds
Summary: "James wants to throw himself out of the window. He wants to break something. He wants to punch the other two men in the face. He wants to go back to the lake. He wants to run all the way to Oliver and kiss him until both their lives are on the line. He wants to die and kill and he really, really just wants to look Oliver in the eyes again."the universe is keen on keeping James Farrow alive, no matter how hard he tries to go against that, and when Oliver finally gets out of jail, he might understand why.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [billspilledquill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/gifts).



> “i would not wish  
> any companion in the world but you,  
> nor can imagination form a shape,  
> besides yourself, to like of.”
> 
> ― William Shakespeare, The Tempest

In the morning, James wakes up with Alexander's fingers threading feather-light through his hair. 

It varies, the way he wakes up. Sometimes Colin will knock on his door and call his name once or twice, sometimes Alexander will shake him and piss him off on purpose so they can chase each other laughing through the apartment, knocking things over while Colin tiredly berates them, sometimes he will wake up first, just at the crack of dawn, and make coffee for the three of them while softly murmuring the lyrics to a Frank Sinatra song.

Sometimes, it's exactly like this; Alexander caressing his soft strands of hair, whispering his name, holding a cup of coffee. 

James opens his eyes carefully, blinks one, two, three times before forcing his dumb, slow body to sit up on the bed. He mumbles something that vaguely resembles a  _ good morning _ to Alexander, who just smiles so very fondly and sits down next to him, allowing James to lean against his shoulder and sip at his coffee in silence. 

Soft, silent mornings that usually follow bad, loud nights. 

Back in Dellecher, a thousand years ago, in another universe, James would've  _ never _ guessed Alexander Vass, their resident villain with his sharp teeth and sharper words, could be this goddamn sweet. Of course, he'd known the other had some degree of caring affection somewhere inside, but not to the point where he would do things like wrapping an arm around James' shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of his head and keeping quiet, waiting patiently until James is ready to talk and perfectly ready to accept if James doesn't want to talk at all. 

Last night was bad, but not one of the worst. On the mornings after the worst ones, he can barely get out of bed, let alone talk. On the very worst one, he spent a weekend without breathing a word. Now, he's mostly okay. James can talk, but he wants to enjoy this a little bit. Alexander's body isn't the one he wants against his own right now, and his warmth is alien and unfamiliar, but James will never complain. He got more than he deserved, and he keeps getting more than he deserves every single day.

"Thank you." he says, voice slightly hoarse, after he's done with his cup. "For the coffee."

"Don't mention it, dear." Alexander is terribly fond of pet names. James likes to be taken care of, even more so after the lake and after everything, so he doesn't complain as much as he would have some years ago. The one rule he'd been forced to agree with when he moved in, a silent, unspoken rule, was that he would allow Alexander and Colin to take care of the softness inside of him. So he does. It's the least he can do. That, and wash the dishes, because the original sweethearts in the apartment hate doing that with a shared burning passion, and before James arrived they would literally play rock-paper-scissors to decide. James likes washing the dishes. It gives him some fleeting sense of achievement. "Colin was the one who made the coffee anyway."

"Oh." a hint of a smile teases the corner of James' lips. "So  _ this _ is why it doesn't taste burnt."

Colin usually needs time for himself after the bad nights. Colin is proper and neat down to his bones, to his perfectly combed threads of hair, and he doesn't like noise and messes. He likes everything to be in its place, he likes routine and calm. On the stage, he is emotional and strong and willing to break down his own mind and build it back up during the show for the audience to marvel at him and his sheer power, but it ends as soon as he steps outside the theater. At home, he likes peace. And James' bad nights are everything but peaceful. Colin doesn't know how to deal. James feels guilty, he always does, no matter what reassurance the couple gives him afterward, and sometimes he wants to run away but he doesn't have anywhere else to go, so he grabs what he can get.

Colin likes him well enough, too. James would say they're basically best friends at this point. Alexander says they're a menace, the both of them, a beautiful, unfairly handsome pair sharing books and glasses of wine and talking about everything. 

So, even if he didn't come to bid James good morning, he took the time to make him a cup of coffee just the way he likes it. They're friends. It's nice.

Once upon a time, a few harsh decisions and a lot of  _ nothing' _ s and a single kiss under fake stars ago, James thought friendship was outworldly. It made him cry and laugh, it made him angry out of his bones and so peaceful he thought he would soar through the clouds. It made him want to kiss and hit and kill and die. It made him feel as if his heart was barely strong enough to hold everything he felt. Friendship was Oliver.

But then it wasn't friendship anymore, it was pure, shattering love. And now, James knows love, for him, is insanely clutching at someone's hands and crying your heart out while they go to jail for you for a fucking decade after a single kiss under fake stars framed by red curtains, is stealing looks and touching and craving and basically dying and being reborn. Friendship is simpler, easier. It's a cup of coffee in the morning and sharing a couch to watch old movies and Alexander's fingers through his hair to wake him up.

"Can I talk to Colin? Is he okay?" James asks because he truly cares. He's learning to be true, these last few years. Alexander nods with a smile. 

"You can. He's fine, don't worry. Colin just-" Alexander sighs, the deep, instinctive sigh of someone who's so in love he doesn't know how to deal with half of the intensity of what he's feeling. "He worries. And he's too uptight. Feelings are hard for him sometimes. But he's fine and he wants to talk to you. We want to talk to you, actually." 

"About Oliver?"

There it is. The name. James never stopped saying it, would whisper it against his pillow at night, put his hand on his mouth and say it against his palm, as if wanting to trap it between his fingers, sob it out during his awful, awful crying fits, scream it through his nightmares, murmur it like a prayer between smiles. But still, it falls heavy on his tongue, soft and cutting at the same time. He likes saying it. It keeps him feeling. Keeps his guilt slashing through his throat and burning him all over, because he doesn't think he deserves to stop feeling guilty. Keeps him warm, now and then, and ever since the lake, he's been  _ so cold.  _

Alexander diverts his eyes to the window for a split second before looking at James again. None of the others can say Oliver's name without glancing away from James. Bad memories. Bad, bad, bad. "Yes." 

"Okay."

Colin is in the living room, curled up on the old, comfortable couch, reading. He's always reading. The three of them always are. It's easier to feel towards fiction.

Alexander walks up to him, kisses him because he can, and Colin smiles sweetly against his lips. Love, for them, is different than it is for James. For them, it's calling after Alexander's graduation, giving and receiving a new address, waiting and waiting until they could share this cozy little apartment, waiting and waiting until they could look each other in the eye and call it love, fighting over the groceries, laughing in the middle of reciting Fair Youth sonnets to one another, Colin learning how to stop shielding himself and Alexander learning how to stop turning everything he says into a sharp blade. It works. For them, love is making things easier and rounder around the edges. 

James likes watching them. It's a painful reminder of what he could've had. James doesn't self-harm physically anymore, but he doesn't think he'll ever stop looking for opportunities to break his own heart.

Once upon a time, an entire lifetime and then some ago, one of his father's students, the one with practised hands and demanding lips, had told James he was so soft that his soul could be broken over and over and he would never harden his heart; he'd told James that, because of this, every single suffering in his life would feel as if it were the first. 

That one student had told him many lies, but he had been honest about that. 

Colin extends a hand, beckons James to himself. "Hey, good morning," he says, holding James' hand between his own as if making sure he's alive. "How are you feeling?" 

Colin cares. James is grateful. "As well as possible."

"Which is...not much, I suppose," Alexander says, almost guiltily. Alexander always sounds guilty. Sometimes, it drives James up the wall in frustration. Sometimes, he just wants to hug him.

James smiles sadly, moves to sit beside Colin on the couch. "No. Not much at all. But I'm stable and on my feet, if that's what you're asking." 

"I'm glad." Colin puts a hand on his shoulder, strong and comforting. The silence between them stretches on, and it doesn't feel uncomfortable, but James is just reaching for the book he left on the coffee table when Alexander shifts on his feet, restless.

"Pip called." he blurts out, and Colin glares at him for his lack of tact, but now it's out there, bumping around like a bird just freed from its cage. "He's with Meredith." 

James wants to throw himself out of the window. He wants to break something. He wants to punch the other two men in the face. He wants to go back to the lake. He wants to run all the way to Oliver and kiss him until both their lives are on the line. He wants to die and kill and he really, really just wants to look Oliver in the eyes again.

But he's so tired. Always so tired. And so cold. He nods. "I know. I figured as much."

"He still thinks..." Alexander pauses. "You know."

Yes, James knows. Oliver thinks he's dead, cold water washing away his features and filling up his organs. Oliver thinks he will never again get to do that thing he did where he grasped the back of James' neck and just let his fingers there, a warm reminder of his existence. Oliver thinks that he will never again get to hold James in his arms and kiss him in that desperate, life-saving way.

James knows. He does. God, he can't stop thinking. He's always thinking so much. 

"I know. He thinks I'm dead. But I have to see him."  _ I have to get him back. I have to touch him. I need for him to know that I'm alive and breathing and that I have been screaming his name through my nightmares.  _

Alexander opens his mouth to say something, probably something stupid, but Colin holds up his hand for him in a clear, imperative gesture that says,  _ don't even start.  _ "Okay. We'll arrange for you to see him," Colin says. Alexander tries again, but Colin whirls at him. "Alexander, don't. If I were James and you were Oliver, I would want the exact same thing. Calm down." 

They stare at each other and a thousand words get written and disappear in the space between them. James watches. He's not asking for permission, but they need to talk. James learned his lesson after Dellecher, they all did.  _ Talk. Talk. Let your feelings be known. Even if you think it doesn't matter, even if it makes no difference, talk.  _ Alexander is afraid seeing Oliver again will completely destroy James' mind. Colin thinks the consequences don't matter, they just need to be with each other. They've talked about this before, the three of them. It's nice, talking. Cathartic. Knowing things about everyone else, having conversations, not lying through their teeth, is like watching an ancient Greek play: it hurts, but it matters. 

"I'll call Pip," Alexander says at last.


	2. Chapter 2

On the arranged day for the meetup, the sunlight barely coming through the spaces between the heavy curtains, James listens to the water pouring down behind the bathroom door as Alexander showers, and watches with tired eyes as Colin silently freaks out.

The diagnosis had been a long time coming, really. Something involving direct unconscious reaction to his father's homophobia, something involving a trigger paired up with genetics, something that went slightly off the rails in his brain. Colin has been dealing with his OCD for quite some time. It got worse after he moved in with Alexander and decided, once and for all, that he would live life the way he wanted to, and particularly worse after he announced that decision during a Christmas family dinner. It shows up often, in the way he organizes the magnets on the refrigerator door and does the knots in his and Alexander's ties and frantically rearranges books when they're fighting. It makes James wince in sympathy when he sees Colin straightening the decorative frames in the wall with tears in his eyes whenever him and Alexander aren't on speaking terms after considerably bad arguments. 

He can't deal with the mess inside of himself, so he deals with the mess outside. He can't even begin to understand the fact that James and Oliver will meet up again for the first time after ten years, so he cleans the mirror in the living room and stays silent. James wonders if he fought with Alexander already. They tend to argue when faced with heavily emotional situations, even when it barely involves them. James just cuddles up in his heavy blanket, wrapping it around himself like a shield, and opens a book merely to have something to hold in his hands. 

Right now, it’s early in the morning and James hasn’t slept properly in a few days. The last time he fell asleep and managed to stay that way for longer than an hour was two days ago, because he passed out of exhaustion on the couch while trying to read and distract himself and then woke up three hours later, heart hammering against his ribcage and a bad taste on his tongue, scared to death of  _ something _ he can't quite place or describe despite his ability with words.

He's standing on his feet and living off of coffee, sheer willpower and a constant, never-ending panic that won't leave him alone and gapes at him everytime he so much as blinks. 

He startled when he looked at himself in the mirror this morning. He looks exhausted, tired, purple eyebags clawing at his cheekbones as if life has drained him of everything he once had. 

He knows he still looks pretty even so, in that decadent way that makes broken marble statues look beautiful. He knows he's pretty, accepted that fact a few years ago, and at this point he hates it more than anything. Hates his grey eyes, his curly strands of hair, his princely voice, hates how people will look at him two and three and four times when they first see him, hates the way they will narrow their eyes and change their tone when talking to him as if he's different, special. He hates being beautiful when he feels so disgusting inside. He feels like Dorian Gray (he mentally curses himself for that comparison, it reminds him of Berkeley and his father's house in the middle of the night and kisses in the hallway and a hand around his mouth saying  _ be quiet, James, can't let your father hear,  _ but it is true, as much as he loathes it), except the painting isn't in the attic. There's not even a painting. 

It's hard to be true to himself when his very appearance is a naturally put-upon lie. 

Lie. He remembers the definition from somewhere.  _ To speak falsely or utter untruth knowingly, as with intent to deceive. _ He lied to Oliver. The one person who means his entire goddamn universe. He's lying still. Has been lying for over half a decade. Was it with intent to deceive? Does it even matter? The older he gets, the more he realizes that theories and intents hardly matter. He lied. Oliver thinks he's dead. 

He tries to imagine what it would feel like if he thought Oliver was dead. James can almost physically feel his heart breaking in half, uneven and ragged, the blood coming up to his throat, at the feeling of Oliver's hypothetical death. He feels even worse for putting him through this at all, feels hot tears threatening to come. The mere idea makes him choke on a sob, and it draws Colin's attention at last - he looks at him with deep concern in his eyes, lets go from whatever he was cleaning up and walks to James with careful little steps. His fingers twitch at his sides, as if he doesn't know what to do with them. James doesn't know either, so he can't help.

He lets out a weary breath. "This will sound ridiculous, but are you okay?" he asks at last. 

It doesn't sound ridiculous, because James knows what he means.  _ Are you okay? _ , in Colin's language, means  _ are you able to stand? Are you feeling like you'll faint? Are you on the verge of attempting suicide again? Are you able to talk? Do you need me to call this entire thing off and carry you to the bedroom and give you something so you can actually sleep and stop feeling like you're dying? _

James is grateful. Talking is slightly more comfortable than staying quiet and overthinking absolutely everything under the sun. "Mostly," he says, and attempts to smile. He doesn't tell Colin not to worry, because that's physically impossible for him. He doesn't say he's okay and ready because he's tired of lying through his teeth. Swallows back the tears, because he's still such an easy crier, even after everything, and he hates it hates it  _ hates it _ . "I asked for this. I'm not sure I'm ready, but it's far better than the alternative." 

The alternative: never seeing Oliver again. Letting Oliver think he's dead and buried underneath the heavy waters of a lake. Letting Oliver slip through his fingers one more time like the thin sand from the beach on which he spent his vacation when he was ten. 

He would rather try to kill himself again, he would rather kill a person again. It makes him feel disgusting, to know the things he'd rather do than lose him yet again, but it's the truth. 

He glances at Colin's wrist, an instinctive reaction to try and check how long until Oliver arrives, but apparently, he removed his otherwise ever-present tasteful wristwatch. Smart move. Sometimes James  _ hates _ how smart Colin is. 

"It won't be long," Colin says. His fingers keep twitching. "Not long at all," he mumbles, more to himself than anything, and sits down on the couch. "Have you decided if you want me and Alexander to leave or stay?" 

James has thought about everything regarding this day. He knows exactly what he wants to say to Oliver, knows exactly how the cadence of his never-ending apologies will sound like. The only person he'll allow to see him as entirely broken as he will look like is Oliver. He still maintains a little bit of pride when it comes to everyone else. "I'd rather you two leave us. Even if it's just for a while. If I don't call you after one hour or two, you can come back."

He can tell Colin doesn't like the idea, but keeps quiet. "Sure. Okay. Whatever you want. As soon as Alexander is ready, we'll leave. Call us if anything happens."

Colin is worried out of his mind, probably being forcefully reminded of James' worst night, of his own frantic washing of the bathtub in the bathroom on the days after, of how Alexander had been this close to getting rid of the bathtub altogether because Colin wouldn't stop seeing trails of blood running to the drain. James wants to apologize, for this, for then, for every single thing, but he's saving his words, so he nods minutely and smiles a bit and hopes that it's enough.

-

James hears his steps. He hears it as clearly as he hears his own heartbeat going frantic and insane like a madman trapped between his ribs, he hears Oliver coming closer and closer to the door of the apartment and he knows he's going to knock on the door or ring the doorbell and he'll have to move his useless legs and open up for him and-

It happens automatically. Not like in a book or a play, just like real life. Oliver rings the bell once, quickly and shyly like self-conscious people are bound to do, James gets up from the couch and opens the door for him, closing it as soon as he steps in like he's paranoid and afraid.

The look on Oliver's face at seeing him makes James remember everything he wants to say and then proceed to forget it immediately. 

_ I'm sorry for breaking your heart. I'm sorry for not kissing you longer. I'm sorry for trying to commit suicide and then surviving and not telling you for six years. I'm sorry for looking you in the eyes that night and bringing Wren up to  _ our _ room (our room, our room, we once shared a bedroom, do you remember how it felt, do you remember how we shared clothes and warmth and everything even when sleeping in separate beds) because I'm petty and vengeful and the worst human being that ever stepped on this earth. I'm sorry for not kissing you longer, I'm  _ so _ sorry. I'm sorry for all the times I let you go when we were holding each other. I'm sorry for not waking you up in the mornings and telling you how much I love you. I'm sorry for smashing Richard's head in with a boat hook and ruining both of our lives. I'm sorry for not realizing you loved me enough to destroy your life for me. I'm sorry I love you so much it ruined you. _

Oliver looks at him as if he can see what the universe is made of inside his eyes, as if he's ready to go to prison for a decade more for him. James feels his knees give out under him and he thinks he says Oliver's name, choked out of his mouth because neither his voice nor his mind can begin to comprehend the sight in front of him, and then Oliver is holding him and pulling him against his chest and James closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath and he can smell Oliver when he presses his face against his leather jacket and he's crying

"Oliver, Oliver, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Oliver-" he repeats like a mantra, a prayer, feels Oliver's hands on his body, so strong they almost hurt as if Oliver wants to touch his veins and his bones, make sure he's alive, alive and here.

"You're here, oh, God, James, you're alive, you're alive", Oliver says over and over again, caressing his hair and his back and shoulders, and the way he holds him isn't the delicate, careful way he held him back at Dellecher, this has all the strength and despair of a suffering man. He pushes James back slightly just to press their foreheads together, grasping at his arms, eyes welling up with tears - James has a stupid thought,  _ here I am sobbing my dumb heart out while he's just tearing up, I'm so stupid _ ,  _ I want to kiss him, I want him to- _

"I'm sorry. Forgive me, Oliver, I'm so sorry," he says, blinking once, twice, more tears trailing down his face. His hands shake where they grasp at Oliver. He's never letting go again. He doesn't know how he ever managed to let go in the first place. Maybe he was stronger before. Maybe he's weak now, too weak to ever loosen the grip in his hands and glance away. 

With a trembling finger, he wipes away some of James' tears, as if with that single swipe he wants to mend James' broken heart. It's such a tender, soft gesture it makes him start crying all over again. "I would tell you to stop apologizing," Oliver says, voice rough from emotion, "because I don't want you to apologize, but I'm just  _ so happy _ to hear your voice again, James, your  _ voice, your face, you, just-"  _ he closes his eyes for a moment, as if trying to get himself back together and failing miserably. "I was afraid I'd forget what you sounded like, I knew I wouldn't forget your face because of the pictures, but your voice, I was so afraid of forgetting your voice, of how it sounded when you said my name-"

James feels like Oliver has his soul between his fingers. He wants to tell him to keep it forever, it was always his to keep anyway. "I'm here. I'm here, Oliver, I won't ever leave again," he holds onto Oliver more firmly, because he's sure that if he lets go he'll fall. "Do you forgive me?"

Oliver stares at him and James feels physically lightheaded at the sight of those immensely deep blue eyes. "James, I would forgive you the world. Don't you understand?"

James understands, but vaguely. All he does is nod and keep babbling apologetic, loving nonsense and feeling Oliver's heartbeat pressed against his skin.

They hold each other for what feels like the longest time and not long at all. James wants to kiss him, but for now is too afraid to try. This feels like a dream, like careful feet on the border of a precipice. He's still not sure if he can stand on his own, so he lets his body truly, truly relax for the first time in ten years, and Oliver merely wraps his arms tighter around him and  _ holds _ him, safe as life itself.

Then Alexander and Colin come in through the door and it takes a moment for either of them to notice, but when Oliver does, he carefully lets James go, turns around and shoves Colin out of the way before punching Alexander square in the face.

James shakes in a full-bodied wince - that  _ must've _ hurt so  _ much _ \- as Colin holds Oliver back and Alexander curses loudly, trying to assess the bloody damage.

" _ What the fuck, Oliver?!" _ Alexander demands, trying to get up in unsteady feet.

" _ How dare you hide him for six fucking years?" _ in his confused daze, James has to admire Colin's strength, being able to hold a furious Oliver back. "I  _ swear _ I could  _ break _ you in half!"

Alexander can't really answer, busy as he is with cursing his heart out and trying (and failing) to minimize the bleeding. Colin won't let go of Oliver, but James can see how badly he wants to run to Alexander's side and how disturbed he is to see him in pain, so he tries to make himself useful and rushes to Oliver, holding his face in his hands. "Please, Oliver, listen." Oliver stops fighting as soon as he hears James saying  _ please _ , and James' heart hurts when he's reminded of exactly how weak Oliver has always been for him when he asks for anything. Apparently, some things don't go away even after a decade in jail. "It's not his fault. He took me in, and I'm grateful. I asked him not to say anything to anyone. Just leave him be. Let's all talk, okay?"

Oliver is so attentive to him talking that he barely reacts to Colin carefully releasing him and rushing to Alexander, speaking to him in a worried, soothing tone.

"Fuck, Oliver, I must be fucked up in the head, because even after you punched my face in I'm still super happy to see you." Alexander says as Colin helps him sit down on the couch. "Thank you, babe, my nose is probably broken but I can walk just fine. Just get me some ice, please, and I'll be good as new." 

The three of them are left alone in the living room, staring at each other - James lets his hands fall from Oliver's face, but Oliver instinctively wraps his fingers around his wrist and keeps them there. Alexander glances at their joined hands, a knowing, tired look on his face. 

"Well," he starts, relaxing back on the couch in a way James has never seen him do after Dellecher, as if the universe has finally shifted back into its axis. "Isn't this just awfully familiar."

It is: Alexander with a broken nose, Oliver and James clutching at each other as if they will die if they're separated, Colin walking around to clean up a mess he's not responsible for. It would be like the old times if not for the distinct, Munch-like shadows under their eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact!! me and a friend (richelieux on tumblr) created so many headcanons for the boy who had james' first kiss that im writing a novel about him. yey  
> no idea if the third chapter of this will ever come out but. i do wanna write it but im busy writing said novel. i have the beginning of third chapter already tho so we'll see?


	3. Chapter 3

Colin comes back from the kitchen, hands Alexander the ice pack and turns to put a strong hand on Oliver's shoulder. "Oliver. I'm glad to see you," he says carefully, the way he does when he's figuring out the way a line from a script is supposed to feel on his tongue. "You know I like you. I always have. And you're welcome to stay and make yourself comfortable," his deft fingers pick at invisible dirt on Oliver's shirt. "But if you raise your hand at Alexander again, I'll be forced to murder you. Other than that, we should be fine."

James loves the way Colin talks about the house as something he and Alexander own, and loves the confident, polite smile on his face, and  _ loves adores would kill would die _ for the way Oliver smiles back. "I'm glad, Colin."

Colin raises his eyebrows in a silent question, looking as confused as anything. 

"I'm glad you were the one Alexander chose and I'm glad you stayed even after everything. I'm glad you two have a house and a life. I'm grateful for how you took care of the two of them all these years. I'm glad it's  _ you _ ." 

Alexander laughs, a sharp, delighted note - it breaks the moment, but James realizes it's because he's happy, so none of them mind. Cautious still, because when is he not suspicious of everything and everyone, but happy. "Colin will enjoy having another sane person in the house."

"On the house?" James asks, voice shaking; he hasn't been thinking further than Oliver's eyes and presence and smile and lips and - so he hasn't really been considering how the formal dynamics of living will work, but he could kiss Alex on the mouth for making that suggestion on such a light, certain tone. As if it's obvious that Oliver will move in, as if it's obvious that the four of them will live together, as if it's obvious that James will get to wake up and go to sleep with Oliver existing in the same space as him. 

James thinks he might break down crying again. 

"I mean, evidently?" Alexander reaches out to Colin to pull him down next to him on the couch. "We're not letting him get away when he's just arrived. So much catching up to do!"

Colin sighs and lets himself relax (as much as he's physically able to, which is not much compared to normal people) at his boyfriend's side. "Also, let's be completely honest here, James - it's simply unadvisable to separate you. I'm not willing to be so cruel as to set you two apart again. We'll talk about technicalities later, but for now, I seriously think you should try and get some sleep. I and Alexander still have to go get groceries anyway." 

Oliver shoots James a fond, pained look, and it's so easy to read and understand James feels like he'll faint at how  _ familiar _ everything is.  _ Haven't been able to sleep too? _

James shakes his head minutely.

"It's settled then," Alexander gets up and presses the ice pack against his nose one more time before going to the kitchen to put it back on the freezer. The apartment is small enough that he can continue his rambling without having to raise his voice. "I say Oliver makes dinner tonight - I don't think you've forgotten how to cook that amazing spaghetti?" 

Oliver chuckles and James's legs would have given out under him at the sound if it weren't for the strong arm around his waist. "No, my memory hasn't given up on me that much yet." 

"Wonderful!" in a blur of quick efficient movements, Alexander grabs his keys and Colin's hand and is halfway out when he calls out one last time, "Consider that enough to pay for the rent of the month, I've missed your cooking so badly!" before shutting the door behind himself. 

-

"You think my nose will be crooked now?" Alex asks when they're taking the elevator down, scrutinizing his own face in the mirror. The bleeding has stopped, thankfully, but there's still a cut and the beginnings of what will be a very noticeable bruise. 

Colin places a hand on his shoulder and pulls so they're facing each other and presses his fingers on the side of Alexander's nose to feel the bone. "I'm not sure it's  _ actually  _ broken. It doesn't look crooked now; I think you should be fine." 

"A doctor's hands," Alex jabs at him, and is relieved to see Colin merely rolling his eyes as opposed to the full-on murderous and painful look he used to get on his face whenever anyone mentioned the plans Colin's father had for him when he was younger. 

"It comes with the genetics, along with the OCD and the depression."

Alex takes Colin's hands and places his arms around his neck before wrapping his own arms around his boyfriend's waist. "Are you okay, babe?" he sounds worried and caring and  _ this _ \- Colin reminds himself, his head light with love - this, the warmth and the concern and the honesty, is why he stays and manages to ignore his parents' calls on Christmas and believe he deserves something nice in his life. 

"I'm fine." he pulls Alexander closer to him, takes a deep breath. "A bit overwhelmed, but fine. We need to figure out how this entire thing will work. They can't be separated again, but I'm not sure how much we can make things function with four people in the apartment and-" 

"Tell you what," Alex interrupts him and disentangles their bodies as soon as the elevator doors open, only to entwine their fingers again as they walk outside. "Let's have a coffee in that bookstore you love so much, then we buy groceries, then we come back and have dinner and  _ then  _ we talk about rent and whatever we have to talk about. How does that sound?" 

Another deep breath. It's cold outside, cold enough to shove Colin back into his senses and into his rational way of thinking, enough to make him realize it's better to just take it easy today. "Sounds okay. Sounds perfect, actually. Thank you."

Alexander smiles, presses a kiss to the top of his head. When they resume walking, he swings their linked hands back and forth, as if they're high school sweethearts on their first date. 

-

Oliver fits on his bed. 

Scratch that;  _ they _ fit perfectly on his bed. 

They fit perfectly alongside each other, as if they have never been apart in the first place - or maybe exactly because of that, because now they know that they will never be able to let go again. James has his face buried in Oliver's shoulder, his hands fisted on his shirt, inhaling deeply, sharing breaths, delighting on how Oliver wraps his arm tighter around him. The sunlight streams softly through the small window - the lights are turned off because James' insomnia makes him slightly sensitive to light, but the curtains are only half-closed - and they know it must be cold outside, but - in here it's so warm, so comfortable, so flawless. 

"God, I missed you so much," Oliver mumbles, his fingers spasming on James' skin. "I missed this so much I thought I was going to die sometimes."

"I love you," James says, because how can he stay quiet, and almost tears up again at the sharp breath Oliver takes, at the way Oliver pulls him even closer. "I'm sorry. I love you, Oliver, as I have never loved anyone - never will love anyone else other than you."

_ As if it were the first _ , the words of that student so many years ago come back to him, and he adds inside his own mind,  _ The first and the last and everything in between.  _

Oliver's hand wanders down to the exposed skin of James' thigh, sweetly unconscious in its search for intimacy. "I always thought not even Shakespeare could find words for how much I love you, James. There's  _ The Tempest _ and  _ I would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor can imagination form a shape, besides yourself, to like of _ , but even that one wasn't perfect - for one, it was written for a straight couple, and it shouldn't be  _ like,  _ but  _ love.  _ But I found something, back when I thought you were, you know, and it's from a sonnet, and it goes like,  _ presume not on thy heart when mine is slain; thou gav’st me thine not to give back again." _

James recognizes it immediately - because he's a Shakespeare scholar, because he's gay, because he almost died twice by his own hands and twice by the hands of others, "Sonnet 22. One of the Fair Youth sonnets."

"That one. That's - that's it. And it sounds so selfish, I know, but-"

"Oliver," he says, and it's so  _ beautiful _ to say that name again, to see the owner responding, "I get it. It's yours. My heart; it has never been anyone else's. Have it. Break it in half. Do whatever."

Oliver shakes his head, caresses James' face with the gentlest of fingers. (James' mind transforms into a mess of  _ kiss me i love you please kiss me kiss me _ ) "The day I break your heart again is the day I die." 

James leans forward and kisses him, and it feels like the entire world makes sense now, and he understands why he didn't die in the bathtub and why he didn't die in the lake and why Richard didn't kill him and why he's still alive and why the universe exists and-

"James," Oliver breathes against his lips. 

"Oliver."

"We have all the time in the world," he says as if he needs to say the words out loud to understand that himself. 

"We do."

They fall asleep clinging to each other. James doesn't have nightmares. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not that long? im sorry im writing like four things at the same time but i have So Much i want to write for this i hope i can manage plus the chapters will get a little bit darker but i want happy endings so nothing disastrous

**Author's Note:**

> deep sigh  
> i have no idea what im doing with this but here have it


End file.
